Chapter 19: The Scalpel

Darla took both babies on Friday night without being asked.

"Go," she said, standing in Ansel's kitchen with one on each arm. "Mine has been home for a week. I can do two."

I stared at her.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," she said. "I'm asking you to let me hold your daughter."

I let her.

It was the first thing I had given her since January, and my chest hurt for a long time afterward.

Ansel drove me to the hospital at ten.

The medical board letter had come that morning, and he had read it aloud over eggs.

The complaint was withdrawn, with prejudice.

"Does that mean you won?" I had asked.

"It means a man filed a false complaint and then his father made him un-file it."

He did not look triumphant.

He looked tired, and he had not touched his eggs.

Now he badged us in through the side entrance and rode the elevator up to the third floor in silence.

Operating Room Four was dark and cold.

He turned on the overheads one bank at a time.

The room came up around us, steel and tile and blue drapes, with a white tray under a cloth in the middle of the floor.

I had not stood in an operating room since January.

My mouth went dry in the doorway.

"We can leave," Ansel said.

"I know."

"Say the word."

"I'm not saying it," I said, and walked in.

I changed in the alcove into green scrubs that smelled like the dryer.

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